


And I Love You Darling; And I Am Done, Dear

by rainonmyback



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Repressed, Feelings, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Overdosing, Poor James Wilson (House M.D.), also idk medical terminology, mannnn im not that good at sad stuff but i tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainonmyback/pseuds/rainonmyback
Summary: —something, something, House’s heart stopped for a solid seven minutes, something, something, he turned blue, something, something, we need to get him into rehab, Wilson, yadda, yadda, it’s okay, something, something, it’s not okay—and then, there he was for hours and hours, the stuffy air filling his lungs as he looked on at the sight before him.Title is from Mitski's "I Want You"
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	And I Love You Darling; And I Am Done, Dear

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry :-( hope ya like it xoxo

Wilson can feel his back ache from the cheap hospital chair’s stiffness. 

He’s on his third cup of coffee. It doesn’t even taste like anything anymore, just hot liquid, forcing itself into his barely functioning system. The past two days have been blurred, rushed and fizzled into nothing, everything except— _something, something, House’s heart stopped for a solid seven minutes, something, something, he turned blue, something, something, we need to get him into rehab, Wilson, yadda, yadda, it’s okay, something, something, it’s not okay_ —and then, there he was for hours and hours, the stuffy air filling his lungs as he looked on at the sight before him. 

It was a disgusting thought, really, to think that even in this state, House was still beautiful. His hair was a little greasy, his skin was paled (which is at least a little better than blue) and he looked like a statue. He looked...peaceful, almost. _Peace was probably the rarest word in their relationship,_ Wilson thought, fiddling with the coffee cup’s lining. He needed to keep his body running, to keep busy, anything to stay awake. He needed to stay up, so when House finally opens his eyes he can meet them and...and…

He didn’t know. How was he supposed to know what would be next? A lecture? A fight?

He thought of, _agonized_ over, what he was going to say to him. None of the words clicked together, none of them made sense, he just felt a tight, hot pit, right in his stomach. He imagined staring at those eyes, the ones full of sorrow and wonder, snark and care, curiosity and loneliness, and wondered if he would ever be able to speak again. The pit grew wider, and his grip on the coffee cup grew tighter.

It was night all of a sudden. Wilson’s not keeping track. House still hasn’t woken up. He could look at his chart, he knows that. He even tried to when House first got sent into the emergency section, the one where they have to pump all of the toxic shit out of his system. He took one glance, and his world cracked apart just a little more, and next thing he knew, his vision was glassy, dark, _burning_. He decided to never touch that sheet of paper again.

He’d be okay. House was always okay in the end. Of course, he was never _okay,_ per say, but he was alive. He was breathing. Wilson glanced over at his figure. His chest was going in and out, slowly but steadily. The pit shrunk, just a tad. 

Morning came again, and yet the room they were both in was frozen, set into this awful personal Hell. Wilson could feel the fellows’ eyes bore into him, Chase nervous as he’d check up on House every so often, Foreman nervous as he’d pass by the room, and Cameron worried as she’d ask him if he’d like to take a break. _Ha, now isn’t that a laugh._ If it was even remotely possible for Wilson to take a break from House, he wouldn’t ever dare to. Not in a million years, Not here, not now, not ever. 

Cameron, caring and delicate, sweet and just as uncertain as everyone else, would give Wilson a sandwich and water bottle every once in a while. Wordless, his eyes said his thanks. She understood, he hoped. 

Eventually, something stopped the routine of Wilson’s twenty minute blackouts and nightmares, night and day blurs, and aching limbs. Something changed. Beeping machines. Red and green and purple lines. Chase and two nurses storming in. Cameron coming in, hands on Wilson’s shoulders, trying to coax him out of the now bustling and lively room. _Not a fucking chance._ He didn’t mean to bark that out loud. He almost laughed, feeling like the lost and broken wife. Cameron just blinked away her discomfort, and the world began to crack even more as Chase and the nurses rolled House out of the room, down the hall. 

Six hours had passed. That’s the one time Wilson bothered to keep time. House was in some kind of surgery— _something, something, his kidneys, something, something, then his heart, something, something, no brain activity, something, something, we did everything we could_ —Foreman was spewing medical garbage, voice low and soft. In that very moment, Wilson vowed to never practice medicine again, to never look at another sick, hurt person, and say he could help. He can’t even help his best friend. Fuck it, he’ll hitchhike to New Mexico. _Become a drag queen. Maybe a taxi driver._ He laughs, and Foreman’s looking at him with that face that everyone’s been giving him, the one that makes him feel like a monster. 

He’s not there anymore. It’s just the breathing machine, doing its job. Wilson stays in the room. He is the pit. They both are.

He doesn’t hear or see Cuddy come in, but suddenly, her voice fills the space, warm and painful all at once. He looks up, and she looks like hell, eyes red, hair messed up. Though, he supposes he can’t say a damn thing about her appearance at this point. He can’t remember the last time he fucking saw a shampoo bottle. 

She’s talking, and talking, and all Wilson can do is stare at House’s hands. 

“—He wouldn’t want to be on machines, James.”

That catches his attention. What she said was undoubtedly a fact. House wouldn’t want to be kept alive solely through a machine helping his body work. He’d hate that. He’d rather be dead. Wilson thinks he’s going to be sick.

He turns his gaze back onto her, their eyes locking. She knows, of course. She’s always known.

“I’m so sorry.” she whispers, eyes glossy, mascara a little messy.

“Please,” he aches out of him, like a prayer, “please don’t. Not yet.”

“When?”

The silence is unbearably deafening. For a small eternity, it’s just the sound of machines and faint murmurings of the hospital’s second floor. 

“Just,” the word breaks free, “just give me some time. I want,” and he can feel his voice shaking, the sound pathetically hopeless, “I just need some time. Please.”

She nods, and in a blink, is gone. It’s just them now. Night comes once more.

House has a pretty good room, Wilson thinks. It’s big, and the moonlight shines in perfectly, twilight drenching them. Somehow, even this Hell is poetic and pretty, in its own sick way. Maybe Wilson needs therapy. Maybe Wilson needs forever.

He stands next to him, and it’s the end of the world. He takes his hand, and gently squeezes it. He rubs over his thumb. It’s cold. He’s gone. _He’s gone._

No words were spoken that night.

It was a cycle—quiet sobs wracking through his body, still numbness washing over, fierce anger rushing into his veins, exhaustion in the back of his skull, repeat. Until it was over. 

The next day James Wilson turns in his resignation papers. As he enters his car, in the very corner of his mind, he can hear House say _about time, Jimmy._


End file.
